For a long moment Rafe could not move, the name on the page coming at him like an unexpected fistful of knuckles. Acid pitched inside his stomach, leaving a sick ache deep in his belly and a vile taste on his tongue.
Dear God, it couldn’t be true, he thought. Surely Julianna had not gone to that villain’s lair, had not placed herself and her sister in the power of that corrupt and evil man?
Yet how could Julianna have known not to make the visit? She would have no reason to be aware of Middleton’s crimes. He should have warned her, Rafe realized. He should have known she and Middleton might meet, as part of the same social circle. But an invitation to the blackguard’s estate—he’d never thought such a possibility would exist.
Scanning the note a second time, he read again that she was to return on Monday, which happened to be today.
Was she home already, tucked secure and innocent inside her townhouse? Or had something dreadful befallen her or her sister?
Of course with other guests attending the party, chances were unlikely that Middleton had done anything more dreadful than play host. Still, given what Rafe knew of the man, he would not underestimate him, since Middleton was capable of almost anything, no matter how immoral.
Rafe knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he assured himself that Julianna was safe. Tossing down the letter, he rose to his feet.
Chapter Thirteen
JULIANNA DREW A brush through her hair and thought of Rafe.
She’d had a long day, beginning with numerous hours confined inside the landau as the coach bowled across the English countryside toward home. Once in London, she and Maris drove straight to Allerton House, where they received hugs from Henrietta and a happy greeting from Harry, who had emerged from his sickbed, thankfully over the worst of his cold.
Despite being dressed in her traveling clothes, Julianna agreed to stay for dinner, too weary to go to her townhouse, change gowns, then come back. Over the meal, she and Maris regaled the others with news of the weekend’s events, including the proposal from the viscount and Maris’s decision not to accept him.
Of course, Julianna said nothing about the portrait of Rafe’s father—or at least the man she now thought of as his father. Despite her near bursting curiosity, she knew she could tell no one. Her discovery of the painting was yet another secret she must keep to herself—until she saw Rafe again, that is.
After arriving at her townhouse, she went upstairs to her bedchamber. Once there, Daisy helped her bathe and change into her favorite pale lavender silk peignoir. Seeing her maid’s tiredness, she bid the girl a good night and sent her off to seek her own rest.
Nearly midnight now, Julianna sat on the padded stool in front of her dressing table and drew the boar bristles of her brush through her long hair. The act was engrained from childhood, a ritual she still found relaxing.
I wonder if Rafe has returned to Town? Her pulse sped faster at the idea of seeing him again, her lips curving upward as her thoughts turned dreamy, her eyelids half-closed.
A second later a quick, sharp rap sounded against the glass of her bedroom window. Her eyes opened wide, her brush flying from her hand and bouncing across the floor when she saw a dark, shadowed face peering inside. Her heart slammed in her chest, a harsh scream curling into her throat, ready to be unleashed at a volume sure to bring the rest of the sleeping house awake and running to her aid.
But just as she was about to let loose, an instinctive sense of recognition clicked inside her mind. Clasping a hand over her mouth, she managed to turn the loud, shrill scream into a well-muffled shout. Trembling, she gripped the padded stool beneath her and stared at Rafe as he eased her window upward.
“Sweet Lord, Rafe, you scared me nearly to death!” she chided, laying a hand over her chest, her heart hammering at three times its normal speed.
He threw a leg over the sill and ducked his head down to climb inside. “Sorry, sweeting, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Well, you did. How did you get up here, anyway?”
“Trellis.” Standing fully inside the room, he picked a small, mangled strand of ivy off one trouser leg and tossed it outside. “You really ought to lock your windows, you know.”
“Before tonight, I’ve never had cause,” she retorted, still smarting from her scare.
Gathering her weakened legs beneath her, she rose and strode across to the window. Reaching out, she drew the peach-colored velvet curtains closed with a snap. “What if someone saw you?” she said, turning to face him.
“No one except but the flowers in your garden.” Pausing, he spread his arms open. “So, is that all the greeting I’m to get after two weeks away? Nothing but a scold?”
At his words, the starch came out of her like a wrung-out linen shirt. “Of course not.”
Hurrying forward on bare toes, she flung her arms around his neck and urged his head down to hers. Setting his hands on her hips, he lifted her up and claimed her mouth, his arms strong as oak limbs against her back.
Humming low in her throat, she matched his kiss, pouring all her longing and frustration at their recent parting into her response. Opening her lips, she slid her tongue against his, loving his taste, adoring the fire of his questing hands and seductive mouth. Her thoughts grew dim as he led her down a dark path where nothing existed but Rafe and the pleasure he wrought inside her body, and even deeper, in her soul.
At length, as if sensing her need for air, he broke their kiss. Surfacing, she was happy to notice that he was laboring for breath as well.
“Hmm,” he murmured, “now that’s a much better hello.”
She rubbed her forehead against his cheek. “Not that I am in any way complaining, but what are you doing here? I thought you were going to send me a note. I would have come to the house tomorrow. You had only to say the word.”
At Julianna’s mention of notes, Rafe felt his shoulders stiffen, the memory of his earlier fears, as well as the news that had sent him racing across the city, once again sharp in his mind.
He tightened his hold upon her, cradling her close. “I wanted to make certain you were all right.”
Leaning back slightly, she tipped her head to one side. “Why wouldn’t I be all right? You had my letter, did you not, telling you I would be away?”
“Yes, I received your missive when I arrived home this evening.”
Her brows drew close. “Then I don’t understand. Why were you worried?”
“Because of where you went, and in whose house it was you stayed. Thank God, you are well and safe. I know you do not realize it, Julianna, but Viscount Middleton is not a man to be trusted.”
“I am beginning to think you may be right. But are you telling me this because he is truly dangerous, or because you would rather I not know that he is your brother?”
His arms loosened, and she slid abruptly down to her feet. “What did you say?”
“I am sorry to startle you, but I know, Rafe. While I was at Middlebrooke Park, I saw the painting of the late viscount in the portrait gallery. The painting of your father.”
“And what makes you suppose that man was my father?” he said in a guarded tone.
“How could I not? You look the very image of him, down to the color of your eyes and the shape of your jaw. Do you mean to deny it? Are you going to tell me David St. George is not your father?”
Hell and blast, he swore silently, what was the chance of her seeing that particular painting and guessing the truth!
He’d seen the portrait only once himself and scarcely even recalled its existence. In his entire thirty-five years he’d visited Middlebrooke Park only once, and that on the whim of his father. He still recalled the day, during a ride home at the end of school term, when he’d been fourteen. In a moment of impulsiveness, his father had decided to take Rafe to see the estate while his wife and other children were away on summer holiday. At least they were supposed to be away—and were, all except for Burton.
He and his younger sibling had met
quite by accident in one of the gardens. The encounter had been disastrous—a case of hatred at first sight, at least on Burton’s part. Obviously well aware of Rafe’s existence and having built up a grudge against his older half brother, thirteen-year-old Burton had taken one look at him and had known exactly who he was.
Burton tossed out several insults and then threw a punch. Rafe had deftly countered. The pair of them had been pummeling each other when their father arrived and pulled them apart.
Before that day, Rafe hadn’t really thought much about the marked resemblance he shared with his father. And later, after his father’s death, he’d ceased giving it much consideration. Lord knows he’d never dreamed Julianna would have occasion to visit Middlebrooke Park and see the portrait.
The idea of Julianna being in Middleton’s house and within easy reach of his half brother made Rafe’s blood run cold all over again.
“Well, Rafe?” she asked. “Is it true?”
“Yes, it’s true, but since you already knew I was the illegitimate son of a nobleman, why should you be so amazed?”
“It’s not that. It’s simply that I wasn’t expecting to discover such a connection. I had no notion that Burton St. George is your brother.”
He released her and stepped away. “We may share a common bloodline, but I assure you, St. George is no brother of mine.” Pacing a few steps, he swung back. “Now, I have a question for you. What in the blue blazes were you doing attending a house party at his estate?”
Her spine stiffened, making him regret that his words had come out carrying an edge of accusation he had not meant. Still, he didn’t for an instant regret the question.
She drew the edges of her negligée closed and crossed her arms. “The viscount has been calling upon Maris these past weeks, and asked us to his home. There was nothing improper about the visit, if that is what you are implying.”
A scowl lined his forehead. “By calling upon, I hope you don’t mean to say Middleton has been courting your sister?”
“Yes. In fact, he proposed to her this weekend…”
His stomach twisted, and for a moment he could barely focus on her next words.
“…but Maris has decided to say no,” she finished.
He raked his fingers through his hair and paced a few steps. “Thank God for that! He’s a vile blackguard and under no circumstances are you to permit your young sister to marry the man. She shouldn’t even go near him, and that applies to you as well.” Stepping forward, he caught her by the shoulders. “Promise me you will stay away from him, Julianna. Swear to me now that you will sever all connection.”
Her dark eyes grew wide. “Well yes, I will try if you truly believe I should. But I do not understand. What is it he has done?”
Done? If she only knew the truth, he thought, she would recoil in horror.
Even now, after all this time, he could barely stand to think about it himself. The sounds, the sights, even the smells—terrible memories that haunted his dreams, plaguing him with a guilt whose stain he knew he would never be able to fully erase.
“I must confess there are times when I am not entirely comfortable in the viscount’s company,” Julianna continued, “but he is well accepted in Society, and well liked in most circles.”
“They say the devil is invited to all the best parties too.”
“What are you saying? Did he cheat you or lie to you? What?”
Worse, he thought. Far, far worse.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he gathered himself to speak. “I told you about Pamela.”
“Yes. The girl you were going to marry. The one who died.”
He swallowed, his throat tight. “What you don’t know is that nine years ago Middleton and three of his cronies kidnapped, raped, and tortured her in revenge against me.”
Julianna inhaled audibly, lifting a hand to cover her mouth.
Rafe barely heard her reaction as the night came back to him, as clear and vivid in his mind as if it were all happening again…
The grandfather clock in the hallway rang once, the house hushed and still, dark in the early-morning hours. Rafe yawned, replaced the stopper in his bottle of ink, then set down his pen. Time to catch a few hours’ sleep, he decided, putting away his work for the morrow.
He’d been so rushed lately, what with the wedding less than a month away, and the distraction of the improvements he was having done to his new house here on Gracechurch Street. He wanted everything to be perfect for Pamela when she took up residence as his wife.
He was also busy rearranging his business dealings. The last few years had been lucrative, so much so he knew he would never again need to worry about a life spent laboring for a pauper’s wage. Yet he wasn’t satisfied; he wanted more, and knew with his skills that he could take himself farther than most people even dreamed.
Pamela would be by his side, loved and pampered. He would keep her dressed in silks and satins, and make sure her every need was met. And once they had a family, all of them would retreat to the countryside for part of the year. Already, he had begun renovations to the house in West Riding where they would reside.
And he had finally received his rightful inheritance from his father, long denied him while the St. George family had tried unsuccessfully to contest the will. He’d already invested the twenty thousand pounds he’d received, a sum that would provide further avenues upon which he could build his financial empire. Even more important, the money had come as a well-earned vindication, one that just might allow him to put the past where it belonged.
Yawning, he stood and began snuffing out the candles.
Outside, a clatter of horse hooves rang noisily in the street, coach wheels rumbling fast against the pavers. Instead of continuing past, though, the vehicle stopped, a man’s voice issuing a muffled command.
Moments later, a fierce pounding came at the door.
Who can that be at this hour? he wondered. He certainly wasn’t expecting any visitors.
Knowing the servants were already abed, he strode out into the entry hall. Cautiously, he eased opened the door.
His jaw knotted when he saw who waited on the other side.
Standing near the open door of his black barouche, Burton St. George loitered on the sidewalk. Flanking him opposite stood one of St. George’s friends, Lord Underhill. Two more men sat inside the vehicle, their faces shadowy beneath the weak glow of the streetlights.
“What do you want, St. George?” Rafe demanded, irritation clear in his voice.
“Would you listen to that?” the viscount announced to his companions. “Do you hear the lack of respect in his voice? The disdain he shows for his betters?” He threw up an arm, his elegant black evening cloak tumbling back over one shoulder. “And here I am come to give you a gift, Pendragon.”
Rafe scowled, uneasiness creeping over him like the crawl of a clammy hand. What was St. George talking about? The two of them despised each other. His brother would never bring him a gift.
“Come, come gentlemen,” the viscount ordered in a sly tone, “bring out our little surprise.”
One man sprang from the coach, the other maneuvering inside to help him lift out a large bundle. Together they carried their burden, dropping it onto the sidewalk at the base of the stairs—an unidentifiable heap wrapped in an old brown woolen blanket.
Rafe’s heart pounded as he stared, imagining all kinds of dreadful possibilities. A dead dog, perhaps? Or a large rotted fish they’d procured from the refuse along the wharfs? Yet he detected no odor of decay, nothing but the faint, metallic sweetness of blood. If it was an animal, he reasoned, why the elaborate show? Why not simply fling the poor creature onto his doorstep and be gone, a loathsome prank well done?
“Are you not even going to take a peek?” the viscount taunted. “I know you’ll want to see what’s inside.” When Rafe made no move, St. George approached. “Perhaps you need some encouragement.”
Using the toe of his boot, the viscount gave the bundle a hard nu
dge.
A moan of agony rose up out of the blanket.
Dear Lord, is it human?
No longer hesitant, Rafe hurried down the brick stairs and dropped to his knees beside the huddled form. Drawing back the blanket, he gasped at what he saw.
A woman lay virtually naked, her bloodied, shredded undergarments all that remained of her clothing. Bruises in vicious shades of purple and blue and red stained her pale skin. Her eyes, lips, and cheeks were so swollen she was all but unrecognizable, her long, golden hair matted with sweat and dried blood.
Golden hair.
He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat, hands trembling as he reached toward her. She whimpered at his lightest touch, shrinking away. As she shifted, her movements revealed a slender chain encircling her neck. Metal winked in the dull lamplight. A locket with its delicate sweep of forget-me-knots engraved on the front, identical to the one he’d given Pamela when they’d first been courting.
No! his mind screamed in denial. No, no, no, it can’t be her!
Tears scalded his eyes, clouding his vision as they streamed down his cheeks without his awareness. Then the voice of Satan whispered in his ear, silky and despicably self-satisfied.
“When we heard you were going to be married, Underhill, Challoner, Hurst, and I all wanted to give you something extra special. We decided that breaking in the bride would be just the thing. I must say she wasn’t terribly cooperative at first, but after a while she did plenty of moaning. A real randy little bitch, your fiancée. I’m sure you’ll enjoy having her warm your bed, unless you’re picky about using other men’s leavings.”
The viscount chuckled as if he’d made a very fine joke.
Rage, chilling and black, washed over Rafe. But instead of leaping to his feet and tearing into St. George, he knelt nearly paralyzed, his body quaking, a silent scream trapped in his throat.
My Fair Mistress Page 17
